


Red Like That

by Verbyna



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coping, Derek POV, Dominant Masochism, M/M, Mild Painplay, One-Sided Relationship, Self-Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:36:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna/pseuds/Verbyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boyd and Erica are missing, and Derek wouldn’t accept comfort, if that’s what Stiles was offering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Like That

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who read bits of this and offered helpful suggestions, and to chaperoned for the final read-through.

_Heart on fire, ashes everywhere  
— there’s no return from a red like that._

\- Manuel de Freitas, from “Fado Menor”

 

Stiles does this thing where he starts out quiet, then asks for things nicely; by the time Derek catches on, Stiles has moved on to stating how it’s gonna go.

Derek could get up at any point and walk away. Stiles wouldn’t stop him, but he wouldn’t try again, either, and Derek knows that the first time he doesn’t roll with the script is the last time anything would happen between them.

So when Stiles says, “Stop the car, please,” Derek pulls over.

And when Stiles says, “I’m gonna take my jacket off,” Derek watches with his hands on the wheel, two-and-ten like Laura taught him.

When Stiles finally says, “Touch me,” in that dark voice he gets when his hips unlock and he doesn’t move like a teenager anymore, Derek takes a deep breath and then takes the permission to heart.

Stiles won’t let Derek hurt him, and he won’t allow Derek to hurt himself. That’s what Derek thinks about as he undoes Stiles’ belt and jeans: there’s no way to fuck it up if he trusts Stiles to ask for what he wants and correct him if he does it wrong.

“Faster,” Stiles suggests after a couple of minutes, rolling his hips into Derek’s hands. He’ll curl into himself when he comes, trapping Derek’s fingers under the band of his briefs, and Derek wants to see that pretty badly. It’s almost better than coming himself, because he’ll jerk off to it later and know he did it right.

He jacks Stiles off faster and ignores the weird angle, ignores the road, doesn’t even think anymore. When Stiles bares his neck and moans brokenly, he doesn’t look like prey at all - he just looks like he’s alone, getting off unselfconsciously, so Derek stops feeling like someone who breaks everything he touches and lets himself be grateful.

When they’re done, he drives Stiles home in silence. It’s peaceful in town; they let the windows down and listen to the suburban buzz in the air, then he pulls over again and Stiles is gone.

 

*

 

Stiles’ red hoodie smells like Laura’s clothes did back in high school: bad food and worse choices, dirty-young all over. A little like Argent lavender-and-metal, a lot like the woods and freshly mown grass from tumbles on the pitch.

Derek doesn’t know what side of him appeals to Stiles, whether he sees the alpha or the eager-to-please middle child he used to be. Maybe he sees the killer in Derek, since Stiles was raised by the sheriff. Derek doesn’t know which of them Stiles is pushing, but there’s no resistance. There should be a red flag in there, if only Stiles would ask for something other than Derek’s silence.

Laura was the one Kate found on the pitch when she was hedging her bets with his family. Derek was in the pool, where no one expected him to talk. He’s got plenty of silence to spare for whatever he gets in return.

 

*

 

They’re at the house, and they shouldn’t be alone, but somehow this always ends up being the case. 

Stiles is sitting on the couch, legs spread wide, feet planted on the floor like he means to grow roots. He’s got his elbows on his knees and he’s facing Derek, eyes darting from his face to his abs. It’s past lunchtime; Stiles should be hungry. (He _is_ hungry - that’s why he stayed after Isaac left.)

Derek puts down the weights he’s been lifting and wipes his face with the bottom of his shirt. Through the cotton, he hears Stiles say, “Come sit down.”

If he was saying it to anyone but Derek, it would be a question. Stiles is one big question mark, but not now; not like this. It’s like an outer-body experience, the way Derek walks over and sits down. It’s a done deal.

“Lay down,” Stiles tells him. “You look like you’re gonna jump out of your skin.” He gets up to make room, then perches on the edge, looking down the length of Derek’s body until he meets his eyes.

That’s how long it takes Derek to realize that the smile Stiles is wearing is fake. He modelled it on the one he keeps for Scott, but it’s a front, it doesn’t work with anything that’s going on.

Stiles must’ve followed Derek’s train of thought, because he huffs and rolls his eyes before he goes, “Fine, be like that.”

“What?”

Stiles gets to work on his own zipper. “Whatever,” he says, “let’s just do this.” He moves Derek’s arm around until Derek’s got a handful of Stiles’ dick, half-hard. “Nice and easy,” and this smile is private and twisted.

It doesn’t take long before Stiles is leaning back across Derek’s chest, head on Derek’s shoulder. Derek reaches without thinking and pulls on Stiles’ hair, short strands slipping through his fingers, but it makes Stiles gasp out _Harder_ in a voice so cracked that Derek’s hair stands on end. It’s not Stiles’ control that’s cracking; it’s the tension layered on top of it.

Derek pulls harder and keeps his other hand pumping steadily, breathing in time. His own dick’s pressing against his jeans, almost painful, but it’s not a distraction. What’s distracting is Stiles’ tense, bowed back, the way he feels like he could bolt if Derek pulls any more stunts. He grunts every time Derek pulls on his hair, he’s sweating through both their shirts, it’s all Derek can do not to rush it.

He gets it right.

Stiles comes with a sigh, batting away Derek’s hold on his hair to lean forward. Derek watches him catching his breath, hands on his face, until he can’t look anymore. It’s too much. He did this - he let Stiles use him to punish himself. Sometimes Derek’s the reward, sometimes they can’t look at each other.

When Stiles is on his way to lacrosse practice, Derek leaves five scratches on the tiles in the shower, sobbing out a name he doesn’t say in company anymore. He’s got shampoo in his eyes and a low growl rising in his throat, the kind that would spook the mice in the walls if he let it out.

His heart keeps racing even after he’s done. On bad days, he’s not sure it stopped racing since he was fifteen.

He still thinks of _her_ when he’s alone.

 

*

 

Derek tries to stay out of Stiles’ nightmares.

He washes his hands more, clips his nails so they’re nothing like his claws, doesn’t let his eyes go red where Stiles can see.

He does that even though he hopes that Stiles doesn’t dream about him at all.

 

*

 

It’s different in the preserve: there’s nowhere to hide from what Derek wants. This is Derek’s territory - fought for and won, his to defend, but the ground shakes minutely under Stiles’ sneakers anyway.

It’s getting harder to ignore. He can hide what he is, but it sets his blood boiling when Stiles all but glows with a ritual and everything around them shifts to accommodate it. Everything out here is straining to please Stiles, not Derek. 

There’s a rightness to it that makes the burn in his knees almost sweet, comforting like Stiles isn’t. The real kicker is that they’re not even fucking. This is where Stiles was thrown around more than a few times, and there’s nothing sexual about it now. His hands are on either side of Derek’s neck, thumbs pressing against the underside of Derek’s chin to tilt his face up.

“Look at you,” he whispers, flat.

This close, from this angle, Stiles looks unbreakable, all sharp angles and cruel red lips. The points of contact between them barely hold any pressure. Nothing’s holding Derek here except for the way he doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Lean on me.”

Derek lets his body fall forward a little until Stiles is supporting some of his weight, and Stiles sighs in contentment. “Use your hands,” he adds, and Derek isn’t sure how he’s supposed to use them until he figures out that he’s the one who should hold on.

He wraps his hands around Stiles’ calves, then squeezes with just his fingertips. It hurts without trapping Stiles, who grunts in approval.

Derek can feel Stiles’ even heartbeat and the slow release of tension in his own muscles. The contrast between Stiles’s soft, impersonal touches and Derek’s roughness is weirdly relaxing. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes; lets Stiles take his weight.

He could make the ground swallow Derek whole. The fact that he chooses not to, that he knows it won’t ever come to that because they both need the balance - it feels a lot like trust.

It’s been a while since Derek’s been trusted to handle himself. The barriers drop one by one, and then it’s so, so simple. Just a clean exchange that the animal inside him recognizes and revels in. Nothing like drowning, no expectations beyond this moment.

He leaves bruises on Stiles’ legs this time. They don’t see each other for a while.

 

*

 

Isaac needs more than Derek can offer, though he never puts it quite like that. When they’re out searching for the rest of their pack, he turns to Derek with those big worried eyes that stay just as worried when the moment passes ( _shit_ ). But what’s Derek supposed to do? He can’t order Isaac to stop feeling like he’s missing a limb.

Peter thinks Boyd and Erica are expendable. They’re not. It’s just that sometimes Derek is so scared of what they’ll think of him when he has them back that he can’t sleep for days, and it’s making him less efficient. He’s not stalling on purpose; his body just refuses to cooperate.

That’s what Stiles is for. That’s why he’s not an indulgence.

 

*

 

Derek moves into the loft toward the end of summer. It reminds him of his and Laura’s place in Brooklyn, and he figures she wouldn’t want him to live in a house with the alpha pack’s seal under the paint on the front door.

He can’t smell things as well as he should in town. The air’s too dry and kids are coming back from holiday with new scents trailing them, confusing and foreign. The search is still on, of course, but he’s almost at the end of his rope. Isaac is frantic and Peter is circling and the alpha pack is still quiet, and Derek has honestly never felt as useless as he does right now.

He reads a lot. He works out. He makes sure he doesn’t forgive himself, so his anchor stays strong, because even when (if) he finds Boyd and Erica, there’s no telling what state they’ll be in: if their anchor is each other, his own has to be better. _He_ has to be better.

Stiles runs into him on the road to the preserve on the last full moon before school starts and asks Derek if he’s on his way home. He’s holding his phone, distracted, and Derek notices how much he’s broadened since last year, how hard it is for Derek to look away from him.

It would be easy to lie, but Derek knows endings. He covers Stiles’ ears with his hands, arms in through the car window, takes a deep breath, and tells him the truth.

Then he walks away, so Stiles won’t see him run.


End file.
